


in the warmth of the sun

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Fae Marc Spector, Feelings Realization, Fingering, M/M, Multi, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, POV Marc Spector, Sassy Clint Barton, Sex Magic, Some Plot, Trans Clint Barton, marc spector feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28384272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Marc nods. It’s nice, he thinks. He doesn’t reallygetit, but Barton looks happy, and he and Barnes clearly have things worked out to some extent. “So you want to sleep with me, is what you’re saying.”“Absolutely,” Barton says. “If you’re cool with it.”
Relationships: Clint Barton/Marc Spector, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Marc Spector
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	in the warmth of the sun

**Author's Note:**

> free space on WHB! Kind of a sequel/parallel story to [by the light of the moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28052889).

It’s probably overdramatic, the way he’s standing up here. Cape waving in the wind. Mask pulled over his face. Arms loose by his sides, hands balled into fists. Overdramatic, and maybe a little showy.

He likes it, though. They all do. All the little parts of him seem to come together when he pulls the mask on, individual songs slipping into a harmony. And then another one, like a steady drumbeat underneath, dangerous and familiar. It’s not _peace_ , necessarily, but he thinks it’s the closest he’ll ever get. A sense of contentment settling into his bones. Braiding itself up his spine, helping him stand tall—

“I gotta say,” drawls another voice, and Marc whips around, eyes searching the darkness of the rooftop behind him. After a moment, a figure emerges with a katana held loosely in one hand, no less deadly for the cavalier way it’s being held. “The white’s a good look, but it’s a little flashy.”

“Ronin,” Marc says, the word more accusatory than he means it to be. They’ve worked together a few times before, and he doesn’t hold any particular grudges against the guy. Still, he’d rather be alone right now. He’s feeling...broody, he supposes. Wants to sit alone with his thoughts.

“Sometimes,” Ronin agrees. “How you doing tonight, Moony?”

“I’m—don’t call me that.”

**Kill him,** says the dangerous voice, and Marc scowls under the mask, ignoring it.

“Alright,” Ronin says, unbothered. “Moon Knight, then. That’s cool.” He’s not wearing his mask, and Marc can see the circles under his eyes that aren’t quite hidden by his lopsided smile and cool demeanor. It’s oddly attractive—

_Marlene_ , whispers another voice, but he shakes that one off much easier. Marlene is for Steven, these days, and he is not Steven. Not right now.

He lets his eyes roam over Ronin’s face, studying him. Most people would quail under his luminous stare—he knows what he looks like, dressed up like this, he’s not an idiot—but it doesn’t seem to bother Ronin at all. He just stares right back, a curious look in his eye.

“What are you doing up here?” Marc finally asks.

“Acquiring moon-themed vigilantes,” Ronin says. “See any?”

Marc doesn’t mean to laugh, but it slips out of him, almost pulled against his will. Ronin looks delighted with himself.

**Kill him** , says the dangerous voice again. Marc glances to his right, sees a tiny beetle crawling along the ledge beside him. It stops, turning to look up at him. **Kill him, he is—**

Marc flicks the beetle away, then turns to look at Ronin again. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you acquiring moon-themed vigilantes?”

Ronin shrugs. “You seemed lonely.”

The words are quiet, but they hit Marc like a punch to the gut. It takes everything he has not to stumble backwards from them, not to run away from the weight of them settling in his chest. “I’m fine,” he says instead, terse and to the point. “Leave me alone.”

“Well, actually, I need your help,” Ronin says, moving a step forward instead. “There’s a guy killing people.”

“There’s always someone killing people.”

“He’s a big guy.” Ronin gestures with his katana, nearly whacking the bricks next to him. “Whoops. Uh. Anyway. I don’t think I can take him down alone.”

Marc sighs. “I’m not interested.”

“Sure you are.” Ronin puts the katana in its sheath. “Come on. Come beat a guy up with me, and then we can part ways and never talk again. Or we can go get pancakes.”

“I—”

“Or coffee. You drink coffee at all?” He stretches and yawns. “I need some. You know any good places?”

Marc thinks about The Other Place, thinks about strolling into Gena’s diner dressed like this with Ronin in tow. The thought is almost enough to make him laugh again, which—well, that’s twice in almost five minutes. There’s something weirdly charming about Ronin, something Marc likes a whole lot.

He wrestles himself under control, dimming the faint glamour clinging to him. He doesn’t think Ronin’s noticed, although he is looking at Marc kind of oddly—

“Okay,” he says, and Ronin blinks, the look vanishing in favor of a broad smile. “Where’s this guy?”

“Seventy-ninth and third,” Ronin says.

Marc sighs. “Bit far to walk.”

“Yeah.” There’s a mischievous look to him now, a little smirk that appeals to Marc’s fae side more than he’d like to admit. “You’ve got a Mooncopter, right?”

* * *

They don’t get pancakes after, but they do stop by a coffee shop. Marc watches with bemusement as Ronin walks in in his full getup, katanas and all, and leans against the counter. “Hiya, Katie-Kate.”

“You’re tracking in sand, dumbass,” she says, scowling at him. There’s an undercurrent of fondness to it, though, and she reaches out, tugging off his mask. “Oh, hey. Bleeding less than normal.”

“Rude,” Ronin says, pulling it from her grip. “We just fought a sand monster. I need some coffee.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Moon Knight.” Ronin turns to him. “You want coffee?”

“I...” He does, really. “I don’t—I should go—”

“Stay,” Ronin says. He wipes blood off his face with a gloved hand. “Please?”

“I...” Marc starts again, but there’s something pulling him to stay, to sit down, to relax and have a cup of coffee. It’s an alien feeling, one that he doesn’t fully trust. There’s something about it—

“You don’t have to drink,” Ronin murmurs. He’s moved closer, somehow, and Marc didn’t see it. He doesn’t recoil, though. Just stands there, frozen, until Ronin puts a hand on his arm and tugs him over to a booth. “But at least sit? Sand guy whacked you on the head pretty hard. Wouldn’t kill you to sit down for a sec. You don’t even have to take off the mask.”

Marc is sitting before he realizes it, practically pouring himself into the booth. After a moment, he tugs off one of his gloves, examining his knuckles. They’re bleeding, courtesy of the punch he’d thrown into the sand guy. He’d expected to punch something a hell of a lot softer.

“You want anything for that?” Ronin asks, dropping into the seat across from him. “Antiseptic? Stitches? Whiskey?”

Marc snorts, surprised _again_ by this man. “One of those things isn’t like the others.”

Ronin shrugs. He looks younger in this lighting, somehow, the soft glow of the bulbs smoothing out the edges of his face. Even the blood streaks look less gruesome. “I don’t know what you’re into. Figured I’d offer the whole lot.”

“You don’t have to offer me anything.”

“Consider it repayment for saving my face from sand guy.” Ronin grins and turns as the girl brings over two coffee cups.

“Can I get you something for that?” the girl asks, gesturing to Marc’s hand. “I have band-aids and stuff on hand, courtesy of Mr. No Regard For Personal Safety here.” She trails a fond hand over Ronin’s head.

“And I appreciate you for it,” Ronin says, offering her a tired smile.

“I don’t need anything,” Marc murmurs, curling his fingers around one of the mugs. “It’ll heal.” It’s the least of his injuries, really. He’ll have to slip back into the Feywild later. He heals well enough on this plane, but the magic always works better over there.

To their credit, neither one pushes it. Ronin just nods, and the girl leaves the coffee pot on the table before returning to her place behind the counter.

After a moment’s hesitation, Marc reaches up and pulls his own mask off. Ronin doesn’t comment on that either, although his eyes linger on Marc’s face a little longer. There’s an _interest_ to his gaze—something that stirs a response low in Marc’s gut, a flash of heat—

_Oh_ , he thinks, and drops his eyes down to the coffee cup.

Khonshu stares back up at him from the surface, somehow glaring at him from behind his bird-beak mask. **I want blood.**

“You got blood,” he says. “Most of it mine. So fuck off.” He stirs it with a spoon, dismissing the visage, then flicks his eyes up to see Ronin’s reaction.

It’s surprisingly blasé. “People in your head?” is all he says, and when Marc shrugs, he sips his coffee and leans back in the booth. “I know the feeling.”

And that’s it. No commiserating, no story-swapping. Just a quiet acceptance, and Marc finds himself appreciating that more than he can even put into words. It’s an odd feeling—he’s the fae, between the two of them, but he’s the one being charmed. He’s pretty sure Ronin isn’t even doing it on purpose, which just...makes it better.

There’s a buzzing sound, and Ronin sighs, digging a phone out of his pocket. Marc’s not sure _where_ he was hiding that in those tight pants, but—

“Aw, fuck,” Ronin mutters, and gets up. “Bucky’s in trouble, I gotta scram.”

“You need backup?” the girl calls.

“Nah. I got it. Keep an eye on Moony here, will ya?”

“If you call me that again, I’ll put one of these in you,” Marc says, nudging one of the crescent darts on his belt.

“Moon Knight’s a mouthful,” Ronin says with a shrug, unbothered, and pats him on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

He vanishes out the door, leaving Marc to stare after him.

“He’s always like that,” the girl says, leaning against the counter. “Can I get you anything else?”

Marc shakes his head, making himself sit straight again. “No,” he says after a moment. “The coffee’s fine.”

“Alright,” she says, and pulls out her phone, putting it up to her ear. “America, hey,” he hears, and then she’s walking into the back, leaving him alone in the tiny shop.

Khonshu is perched on the sugar packets now, still in his bird form. **You are weak.**

“Fuck off,” Marc mutters, sipping his coffee.

**You are only good for one thing.**

“I said fuck off.” The coffee’s too hot to drink fast, but he does anyway, wincing at the burn in his chest. Then he tugs the mask back on, carrying both mugs back to the counter before turning to face the door. He doesn’t really know what to do, now. Back to the Feywild, he supposes, but there’s a tiny part of him that wants to go back into the night and see if he can find Ronin. It’s a strange desire, one that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

_I don’t know what you’re into,_ Ronin had said. Marc’s starting to think the answer to that might have walked out the door.

* * *

It’s not the last time they fight together. Not by a long shot. Marc suspects that Ronin—or Barton, he finally realizes when he puts together the Clint Barton/Hawkeye thing after way too fucking long—keeps asking him for help when he doesn’t really need it.

He doesn’t know _why_ , but it’s nice to be wanted. Nice to talk with someone who isn’t Jean-Paul or his husband, or people he employs. Nice to hear a voice in his head that isn’t taking up permanent residence. He finds himself more...put together, around Barton. Feels more like Marc Spector, rather than another facet of a personality.

So he goes along with the requests, no matter how big or small. Technically, he thinks, there’s something involving favors and gifts here. His magic keeps sparking every time Barton pops up, curling and coiling inside him. Though in this case, he’s not sure who’s doing the favor for whom, so he keeps his mouth shut about it.

At least, he _thinks_ it’s his magic. There’s still interest in Barton’s eyes, still a hint of a smirk every time he sees Marc without his mask off. Marc doesn’t push it, though, because he’s pretty sure that Barton and the Winter Soldier are together. Barton talks a _lot_ about him, at least—there was a whole memorable fight with some underground ninja group where he spent the entire two hours waxing poetic about Barnes’ metal arm. Marc can handle himself in a fight, but he’s not stupid enough to make a move on the Winter Soldier’s maybe-boyfriend.

Then there’s another fight—a particularly nasty one, in which Marc takes more punches than he throws out, and he has to peel himself off the sidewalk at the end of it. Barton’s not much better, laying next to him on the concrete and bleeding with a sluggish enthusiasm. Marc knows he’s alive, at least, judging by the quiet swearing.

Barton slowly moves, propping himself on his knees and elbows for a moment. He takes a couple deep breaths there, and then pushes upright, offering Marc a shaky laugh. “You’re alive,” he says, sounding relieved.

“Something like that,” Marc agrees, closing his eyes for a moment.

They fly open a second later when a pair of lips press against his, the faint sting of his split lip only half as shocking as the fact that Barton is kissing him.

“You—” he starts as Barton pulls back. “But you—”

“Sorry,” Barton murmurs, looking a little sheepish. “I didn’t—I got carried away for a second.”

“No, it was...” Marc shakes his head, which he regrets a moment later. It makes him too dizzy. “But you—don’t you and Barnes—”

“We got a thing,” Barton says. “Him and me. We...” He sighs, looks around. “Not really the place for it, here.”

Marc has to agree with that. He retracts the claws on his bracers and extends a hand. “C’mere,” he mumbles, and Barton puts his hand in his without a moment’s hesitation.

The shift to the Feywild is always a little jarring, even for Marc, who’s done it his whole life. But Barton seems unfazed. He just looks around and nods. “Thought so.”

“Thought what?” Marc sits up, the magic of the forest already snaking through him.

“That you were fae.”

“It wasn’t obvious?”

“Maybe.” Barton shrugs. “Dunno. I miss shit like that sometimes.”

Marc tugs his mask off. “Does it matter?”

“Course not.” Barton looks at his hands in the dim light. “Why are we here, though?”

“Better than a sidewalk?”

“Mm. Fair.”

It’s also the one place Khonshu doesn’t bother him, at least not directly. Marc’s never free of his influence, not entirely, but there’s a lot of other magic at work here, and Khonshu seems to almost...dislike it. He’s never appeared to Marc here, anyway.

He relaxes a little, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Welcome to the Feywild,” he says. “Don’t eat anything if it’s not me giving it to you. Don’t tell anyone your name.”

“Okay.” Barton sprawls back on the grass, looking up at the sky. “Huh. Stars are the same.”

“Yeah.” Marc grunts as he gets to his feet, then reaches down. “Come on. I have a place here.”

“What, like an apartment?” Barton takes his hand, wincing as Marc pulls him up. “Or—wait, do you have a treehouse? Please tell me you have a moon-themed treehouse.”

“I—” Marc sighs. “No. It’s a cottage.”

“But it’s moon-themed, right?”

“...maybe a little bit.”

“Ha. Knew it. You got coffee?”

“Yeah.” He normally doesn’t, but he’d found himself stocking up on things after their last fight together, like human food and instant coffee. Wasn’t even really aware he was doing it until he’d put the last can in place. “Come on.”

He leads Barton through the forest. It takes them maybe ten minutes of stumbling before he’s at his cottage, pressing on the crescent mark on the door. It swings open at his touch, revealing a small, somewhat moon-themed cabin. “Watch your step,” he says, nudging Barton over the threshold. “You can sit. I’ll get some first-aid stuff.”

“I’m really okay,” Barton says, sitting in a chair. “I don’t need it.”

“You’re bleeding on my floor. I hate cleaning.” Marc grabs his well-used first aid kit, then makes a cup of instant coffee. “This is all I have for coffee,” he says. “Technology has a hard time functioning here. Too much magic in the air. I’ve got the necessities, but that’s about it.”

“That’s alright.” Barton looks around, nodding at the statue in the corner. It’s covered in a white sheet, and Marc tries not to look directly at it. “Totally called it on the moon thing, by the way. What’s the wanna-be ghost over there?”

“It’s Khonshu,” Marc says, dragging a chair closer. He tugs Barton’s uniform. “Can you get this off?”

“Aw, Moony,” Barton says, a hint of a smile on his face. “If you wanted me naked, you could’ve just asked. Skipped the whole fight thing.”

“I told you not to call me that—”

“And I told you that Moon Knight’s a mouthful—”

“Could be, if you played your cards right,” Marc mutters, helping him pull the top off. He doesn’t _really_ mean to say it, but the opportunity is right there, and he can’t let it slip by.

Barton’s stunned face appears from under the fabric, and then he bursts out laughing, tugging the top off the rest of the way. “I knew I liked you for a reason,” he says, setting it on the table.

Marc shrugs, face heating up a little. “I’m gonna stitch that.”

Barton looks down at the gash scored across his forearm. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s probably—yeah. Thank you.” Then he blinks, a little crease appearing in his forehead. “I—oh shit. Shouldn’t do that.”

“You shouldn’t,” Marc agrees, shivering a little as the magic flares in him. “But better me than any other fae. I’m not going to hold it against you.” He sets Barton’s arm on the table, and starts getting out the supplies. “So. You and Barnes...”

“Mmm.” Barton rubs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Should explain that.”

“Yes.” Marc injects a local, waits for it to take effect. “You kissed me.”

“I did.” Barton suddenly looks worried. “Wait—did I fuck up some fae rule? I’ve never been good at that shit.”

Marc shakes his head. “Just tell me, Barton.”

“Yeah, yeah. So Bucky and I—we got a thing, the two of us. We’re together.”

“I know.”

“But we also see other people. Well—” He pauses, frowning. “I do. He doesn’t so much, but he’s kind of a grumpy bastard.”

“See other people?”

“For sex,” Barton clarifies. “I go back to him, at the end of the day. But I sleep with other people sometimes. He knows. I tell him before, and we make sure we’re both okay with it. But that’s the deal. Works both ways.”

Marc doesn’t look up. “You told him about me?”

“I talk about you a lot,” Barton admits, sounding vaguely embarrassed. “I think it might annoy him. But to be fair, I talk a lot about him to you, so it evens out.”

“You do,” Marc agrees, tying off the last stitch before wrapping it in a bandage. “You really do.”

“I love him,” Barton says softly. “In whatever way we’ve got worked out. I love him.”

Marc nods. It’s nice, he thinks. He doesn’t really _get_ it, but Barton looks happy, and he and Barnes clearly have things worked out to some extent. “So you want to sleep with me, is what you’re saying.”

“Absolutely,” Barton says. “If you’re cool with it.” His mouth curves in that crooked smile, and Marc has a sudden urge to kiss it off him. “It’s fine if you’re not. But all other parties are in agreement, if that’s something you were worried about.”

“A little bit,” Marc admits. “I’m not stupid enough to take on the Winter Soldier.”

“He’d kick your ass,” Barton says, matter-of-fact. “Twice over.”

“You think so?”

“When it comes to me? Hell yeah.” Barton grins. “Not that I need him to, but it’s sweet. Makes me feel all warm and squishy inside.”

Marc snorts. “Think the term is ‘warm and fuzzy.’

“Whatever,” Barton says, and leans forward.

This kiss is less hesitant than their other one was. A little more heated, too, and Marc finds himself kissing back, hands settling on Barton’s hips. It doesn’t last long, and when Barton pulls back this time, Marc feels the urge to chase his mouth, to pull him over to the bed, see what he looks like when he’s coming undone underneath him.

“Perfect,” Barton says. “God, I’ve wanted to do that properly for _weeks_.” He touches his mouth, a curious look on his face. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Never kissed a faery before.” He shrugs. “It’s different. I like it.”

“Good,” Marc says, and he stands up, pulling Barton up with him. “Guess you’ve never slept with a faery either.”

“Nope,” Barton sighs dramatically as Marc tugs him over to the bed. It’s a small cabin, so it’s not like there’s far to go, but the anticipation makes it feel like a mile. Marc wants this, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time. And what’s even better is that _he_ wants it—not Steven Grant, or Moon Knight, or Jake Lockely. Khonshu’s not whispering in his head, trying to egg him on. Everything running through him right now is Marc Spector, pure and simple.

“What do you like?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Everything,” Barton says, sitting next to him. “I can get into specifics, if you want, but I’d rather get into your pants.”

Marc laughs and kisses him again. They end up sprawled on the bed, making out like teenagers. Barton’s still wearing his pants, and Marc’s still fully dressed, but there’s no urgency to this. It’s perfect, really. It’s been a while since he’s done...anything, and this feels like a nice reintroduction.

Plus, Barton’s pretty to look at. Marc’s looked before, even seen him in various stages of undress, but he’s never felt like he was allowed more than sideways glances. Now he can look _and_ touch, and it’s almost overwhelming.

Marc rolls them over, straddling Barton in one fluid move. He takes off the cape, tossing it onto the floor—it feels weirdly sacrilegious, doing that, but he doesn’t really care right now—before following it up with the rest of his layers until they’re both bare-chested. Barton watches eagerly, hands behind his head and a cocky smile on his face. “Nice,” he says approvingly. “Very hot.”

There are scars on his chest—lots, really, but these two are the only matching ones. Marc trails his hand over them. “What’re these from?”

“Surgery,” Barton says.

“What happened?”

“Just trying to reach my final form.”

Marc laughs. “Okay?”

“I’m trans,” Barton says, and there’s a hint of worry in his voice, a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there a moment ago.

“Oh.” Marc pauses, fingertips still barely on the right scar. “Do you—should I not touch these?”

“You can touch.” Barton puts a warm hand over his, presses it flat to his chest. “They’re part of me. I don’t mind.” He hesitates, then adds, “But you’re okay with that? With me?”

“It’s new,” Marc admits. “But I don’t—it doesn’t bother me, if that’s what you’re asking. Or I’m not thinking of you any—I still want—I’m still good with—” He scowls, rubs a hand over his face.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Barton says, grinning at him. “Do you need me to give you the politically correct phrase?”

“Is there a politically correct phrase?”

“Repeat after me,” Barton says. “Clint Barton, you are a very attractive man, and I want to fuck you until neither of us can walk straight.”

Marc grins. “Not supposed to give me your name,” he says.

Barton shrugs. “You already knew it.”

Marc decides not to get into the nuances of it. Not like he’s going to hold Barton here or anything. He just kisses the man, slow and deep, then says, “Clint Barton, you are a very attractive man, and I want to fuck you until neither of us can walk straight.”

“Perfect,” Barton says, grinning against his mouth, too wide to kiss properly now. His fingers slip down between them, fumbling at his pants. “Oh, and speaking of names—” He winces, sticks his finger in his mouth to suck on. It’s a little distracting. “Stupid buckles. What can I call you?”

“What?”

“I mean, Moony isn’t exactly a sexy thing to yell in bed, but if that’s what you want—”

“Absolutely not,” Marc says, making a face. “Jesus, no. It’s Marc. You can call me Marc.”

Barton nods. “Suits you,” he says, one hand coming up and tracing over Marc’s jaw. “Spector, right?”

Marc nods. He’s not surprised Barton knows that one, given his various dealings with the Avengers. He supposes he’s in some database somewhere, likely courtesy of Steve Rogers. “There. No more...Moony.”

“Deal,” Barton says, and then his eyes go wide.

Marc snickers. “ _That_ one, I’m holding you to.”

“Dammit.” Barton scowls, but Marc can tell he’s holding back a laugh. “Fine. Be like that.”

“Get this off,” Marc says, and reaches down, undoing Barton’s pants with ease. He tugs them off, along with the boots, and then Barton’s deliciously naked underneath him, spread out like a vision.

Marc would be content to just sit there and look, honestly, but Barton nudges him impatiently. “Your turn,” he says, and Marc shimmies out of his own pants, tossing them on top of the rest of the white pile.

Barton eyes him with an appreciative look. It’s arousing, but also just...nice, to be blatantly eyeballed like that. Barton’s not shy about anything, which Marc has always found refreshing about him. He’s not exactly a subtle guy himself.

“Like what you see?” he asks, kneeling on the bed and sliding a hand up Barton’s leg.

“Fuck yeah,” Barton says. “Weren’t kidding about being a mouthful, were you?”

Marc laughs. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Yeah, you were.” Barton sits up, maneuvers them until Marc’s laying in his spot. “I like a confident man.” He wraps a hand around Marc’s dick, rubs his thumb just under the head. “Especially when he looks like you do. Fuck, you’re hot.”

Marc flushes red. “Says you.”

“Exactly.” Barton keeps eye contact as he leans down, lightly mouthing where his hand is. His other hand slips between his own legs, and if everything else wasn’t enough of a signal, Marc can _hear_ how turned on he is. It’s fucking incredible, watching Barton’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, hearing his breath catch as he speaks. “You— _fuck_ —got lube? Condoms?”

“I—” Marc shakes his head, pushing up into his touch. “I don’t—it’s a fae thing, you can’t—it’s safe.”

Barton looks mildly skeptical. “Yeah?”

“Yeah—” Fuck, it’s too hard to think when he’s _touching_ Marc like that, his whole goddamn brain is short-circuiting— “Magic,” he finally manages, waving a hand. “You’re good. I promise.”

Barton shrugs. “Cool,” he says, and lowers his head, dragging his tongue up Marc’s dick without further comment. “Good to know.”

“Fuck—” Marc nearly arches up off the bed, already panting. God, he’s going to embarrass himself if he doesn’t wrestle this under control, he’s already on the edge and Barton’s barely done _anything_ —

Barton, on the other hand, looks pleased as hell. “That’s hot,” he says, watching with fascinated eyes. “I’m down for more than one round, by the way.” He wraps a hand around Marc, slowly jerking him off. “Want me to take the edge off a little?”

Marc manages a noise that he hopes comes off as consent, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. He’s not going to last long, he wants to enjoy every second of it, imprint it in his damn memory. This is happening, he _knows_ it’s happening. It’s not in his head, Barton is here and real and touching him, and Marc grounds himself in that knowledge.

Barton winks at him, then starts working at him again, doing something _infernal_ with his tongue that has Marc seeing stars. He’s breathing fast enough to make himself dizzy, but he barely even notices, eyes fixed on the way Barton’s mouth is wrapped around his cock—

It’s almost a surprise, when he comes. He’s only half-aware it’s happening, barely manages to choke out a warning that Barton seems to take as a challenge. It’s a slow warmth that spreads through him, leaving him sated and boneless on the bed, unable to hold himself up anymore.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, staring up at the wooden ceiling. “I—Jesus, Barton.”

“Yeah, I know,” Barton says, sounding smug as hell. Marc picks his head up enough to see Barton’s tongue flicking delicately over his knuckles. “I’m alright.”

“Fucker,” Marc says, but he can’t hide the weary satisfaction in his voice. “You fishing for compliments?”

“Nope.” Barton splays his hand, looking at the back of it. “Uh, are you aware your jizz kinda...sparkles?”

Marc shrugs. “Fae thing.”

“Like glitter glue,” Barton mumbles, seemingly fascinated.

“Alright,” Marc says. “That goes on the list of unsexy things to say in bed.”

“It’s pretty.” He licks the rest of it up. “I like it.”

“Okay?” He’s not really sure how to react to most compliments, and that’s a particularly weird one.

Barton grins at him, then takes his hand, pulling it closer to his own body. “I know I rocked your world a bit,” he says, “but I’d kinda like to get off too.”

“Demanding little fucker, aren’t you?” But he obliges, shifting his boneless body a little bit more so he can angle his fingers properly. Barton’s hiccuping little gasp is all he needs for encouragement.

“Bucky says that too,” he says, grinding against Marc’s fingers. “Gets whiny—but he— _fuck_ —likes it when I boss— _goddamn_ —him around—”

Marc can see why. It’s kind of hot, watching Barton just take charge. He can taste the potential here, is pretty sure that under the right circumstances Barton would be very happy to lay still and take orders. But he doesn’t mind this—the bossy, cocky, somewhat overconfident Barton. It’s _fun_.

“You like this?” he asks, crooking his fingers. “This what you wanted?”

“God, yes,” Barton mutters, hips rolling. “Keep ‘em right fucking there—”

Marc does as he asks, letting Barton control the movement. It only takes a few more hitched breaths, a few more moaned expletives, and then he stops, eyes closed and head tilted back. “Fuck.”

There’s no words for that. Marc doesn’t even know how to describe it, other then _holy shit that’s fucking hot._ So he just kind of stares, watching Barton ride out the last of his orgasm with a satisfied little sigh.

“Perfect,” he says after a moment, rolling to the side and sprawling on the bed. “Oh, man. It’s been a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Oh...like a day.” Barton grins at him. Marc can practically feel it warming his bones, like a ray of sunshine. “I don’t know. Long enough.”

“You’re needy,” Marc tells him, and Barton shrugs without a hint of shame.

“Ready to go again whenever you are,” is all he says, and he rolls up to sitting at the edge of the bed, muscles rippling under his skin as he stretches.

Marc suspects some of that statement is just bravado, but he doesn’t call Barton on it. “Gimme a minute,” he says instead. “You want something? Water?”

“Probably couldn’t hurt,” Barton says. His legs wobble a little as he stands up. Marc can’t quite hide the smirk on his face, and Barton flips him off before padding over towards the kitchen sink. “Fuck you, Spector.”

“Like I said,” Marc calls after him. “Give me a minute.”

Another sunshine grin follows that, delight written over every inch of Barton’s body. “Gonna hold you to that,” he says, before drinking out of the tap like some kind of heathen.

“Looking forward to it,” Marc says, and gets up to get him a glass or something.

* * *

It’s three days, human time, by the time Marc gets around to taking Barton home. He’d be happy to keep the man forever, really, but Barton keeps talking about Barnes, and Marc’s half-curious to see what it is about this guy that he seems to love so much.

“Could’ve walked my damn self up,” Barton says from where he’s slung over Marc’s shoulder.

Marc snorts as he opens the door. “No, you couldn’t,” he says. He glances around, and yep—there he is, in the flesh. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier.

He’s good-looking, Marc has to admit. Rugged, and dark, the kind of guy Marc usually would go for. He’s also competent, clearly, given that he has one hand already curled around a gun, and the other balled up in a fist. Good reaction times, then.

“Did you break him?” Barnes asks, voice low and gravelly. It’s exactly the kind of voice Marc would expect the Winter Soldier to have, and he hides a shiver as he dumps Barton on the shitty little couch.

“No,” he says, looking down at Barton through his mask. With his hair tousled, and that sleepy, dopey grin on his face, he looks—

Well. He looks well-fucked, and Marc can’t help the tiny flash of pride.

“You were gone a while,” Barnes says, and Marc glances back at him. There’s an accusation in his voice, and a hint of worry too. His eyes are darting between Marc and Barton, like he’s not sure which one he should move to first—

_Oh_ , Marc thinks, looking at him, and suddenly the reason Barton was going on about him becomes clear as hell. Barnes, for whatever issues he’s got, clearly loves the guy. And Barton clearly loves him back.

He wonders if they’ve told each other yet, or if it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Judging from his time with Barton, he suspects it’s the second one.

“Fae time is different,” he says quietly, stopping his hand from twitching towards the darts on his belt. “It was only a night, for him. I watched the time. I kept him safe.”

Barnes almost thanks him, and Marc can’t help but be amused by the slip. Barnes manages to catch himself, looking annoyed. “Appreciate it,” he says instead. 

Marc looks back at Barton. He reaches out, brushing the hair off his forehead. “Bye,” he murmurs, quiet enough that he doesn’t think Barton even hears him.

“See you next time,” comes the quiet reply, accompanied with a tiny smile, and Marc smiles back under his mask. Then he disappears out the window, laughing to himself at the muttered _we have a door_ that he hears behind him.

He goes back to the Feywild a bit, just to clean up. Despite his protests to Barton, he really doesn’t mind cleaning. There’s a certain peace to putting things back in order. He could probably make something deep out of that, but he doesn’t fucking want to. He just wants to put his house back together and then pop over to Gena’s place and go get breakfast. He’d murder for a good cup of coffee and some pancakes. Barton really took it out of him.

“You look happy,” Gena tells him later, smiling as she slides a cup of coffee in front of Jake Lockely. “Something good happen?”

“In a manner of speakin’,” Lockely tells her, and she smiles back before moving on. Lockely watches her go, then sips his coffee with one hand. He finds himself thinking about things he doesn’t fully understand, like a sunshine smile and blond hair, a lopsided smile that seems like it belongs in a dream.

_Somethin’ real good,_ he thinks, and can’t quite stop the little grin from spreading over his own face.

* * *

“Bucky wants you to fuck him,” is the first thing Barton says to him after their little meet-up.

Marc punches a giant rat in the face. “Huh?”

“He told me so,” Barton says, loosing an arrow. “He wants you. Thinks you’re hot.”

“That so?” he punches _another_ rat—this fucking city, of course the monster of the week is giant fucking rats—and aims a dart at the girl who appears to be controlling them. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Barton’s in his Hawkeye gear today, and no mask means Marc can see the excited look on his face. “That’s it? No questions?”

Marc shrugs. It’s unexpected maybe, but he’s learned that Barton and unexpected kind of go hand-in-hand. It’s certainly not the weirdest request he’s ever heard Barton make. “If he wants to—” He ducks a swiping claw, whacking it away with a truncheon ”—and you don’t mind—”

“Fuck no. Been thinking about it for days.” Barton jumps up on the hood of a nearby taxi and fires off three arrows at once. _Show-off._ “I was telling him about the whole fae orgy thing and he was definitely into it.”

Marc grins, pushing aside memories of fucking Barton in a starlit glade. “Liked that, did you?”

“Loved it. Hot as hell. Five gold stars.” Barton grunts as a rat bites his leg, and Marc beats it off him with a truncheon. “Fuckin’ hell—am I gonna get giant rat rabies?”

“You’d better not,” Marc says, the idea of Barton getting hurt like that almost too painful to think about.

**You are getting too close to him, my son. You are better than that** —

Marc kicks the Khonshu rat in the face and shakes his head. Doesn’t matter. Barton has Barnes, in the end. Marc’s aware he’s just a side piece. He’s going to enjoy it anyway. It’s the closest thing he’s had to a relationship since Marlene left him, and at least he knows clearly where he stands with this one.

The rat fight finishes a few minutes later, thanks to a cleverly placed net arrow by Barton. They heave the girl controlling them into the back of a SHIELD van, and watch it drive away as some poor peons get stuck with rat clean-up duty.

“Nicely done,” says an agent. “Both of you.”

Marc glances at him, then moves back, letting Barton take over the PR thing. It’s never been his forte, and he likes to watch Barton anyway. He has an easy charm to him, even when he’s covered in rat guts.

Barton does the debrief thing, answering questions without any fanfare. He looks tired as hell, and Marc has a sudden urge to take him back to the Feywild, clean him up and then tuck him into bed—

He shoves it aside. That’s not something he gets to have, and therefore, isn’t something he should be thinking about. _Be happy with what you’re getting, Spector. Don’t read into it._

He fades into the darkness, vanishing among the buildings. Just before he catches a drone out of there, he sees Barnes striding up, shoving the agent aside in favor of wrapping his arms around Barton, rat guts and all. The sight stirs something in Marc, something he doesn’t even think he can name, and after a moment, he turns away from it.

**Coward** , Khonshu says, and well—he can’t argue that one.

* * *

Barton texts him two days later. _Thursday night okay? At eight?_

_For what?_

_Feywild orgies. Unreasonable sex marathons. Glittery fae jizz. The whole nine yards._

Marc laughs. _Works fine_ , he texts back. _I’ll pick you up._

Barton sends him a list of emojis, most of which Marc doesn’t recognize. He sends back a thumbs-up, and figures that’s enough. There’s a little warmth in his stomach—partially at the idea of what’s going to happen, but also in that he’ll get to see Barton again outside of their little vigilante thing, and—

“Stop it,” he mutters to himself, but he can’t quite make the smile disappear from his face. After a minute, he stops trying.

* * *

He enters the apartment through the unlocked window—“I go that way all the time, I’m always forgetting my keys,” Barton had said when Marc asked, and waved a dismissive hand before backflipping off the building they were standing on. Marc had taken that for permission, and so a few minutes before eight, he’s sliding into the small apartment, making sure he’s not tracking mud or anything on the relatively clean floor.

It’s cozy here, much more so than his own place. There’s a well-loved quality to the apartment—magazines on the table, a pair of glasses perched on a book, shoes kicked off by the door, dishes sitting on the counter. Marc feels _comfortable_ here, despite being a stranger, and that little feeling comes back as he looks around, a sense of belonging curling through him—

The door opens, and Marc disappears into the shadows on instinct. But its only Barnes, silver hand pulling off his eye mask and tossing it onto the kitchen counter. Marc thinks about announcing his presence, but a tiny part of him kind of wants to mess with the guy.

“I hear you want me to fuck you,” he says, voice low.

Barnes whips around, one hand flying to his gun. Marc moves on instinct, and they trade a flurry of blows before Marc spies an opening, wrapping one hand around Barnes’ throat and shoving him against the wall.

Barnes’ eyes go wide at the move, and his pulse increases under Marc’s hand. “Moon Knight,” he says, voice tight, and suddenly Marc hears Barton calling him _Moony_. “Who let you in here?”

Marc shakes off the memory, controls his expression so nothing slips through. “Nobody,” he says. “I used the window. Clint told me I could. Also, you guys need better security.”

“There’s nothing for anyone to take,” Barnes says, voice rough. “And if someone breaks in while we’re here, we’ll regret it.”

“Fair.” Marc lets go and steps back, giving him a little space. Barnes is pretty too, he thinks, especially up this close. Intense, grey-blue eyes, and dark hair that frames his face in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but definitely is. Marc lets himself look for a moment, and then refocuses. “So was Clint right? You’re interested?”

“Yes,” Barnes admits, and there’s a hint of embarrassment nestled in with the desire. “He’s been going on about you for a while, you know.”

_Could say the same about you_ , Marc thinks, but all he says is, “He’s a good man. I like him.”

A tender expression crosses Barnes’ face, a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of thing. His shoulders relax a little more, and Marc feels like he maybe passed some kind of test right there.

“That’s why I’ve been helping him,” he adds. “When Khon—when I can. When things work out.”

“Good,” Barnes murmurs, hand twitching up towards his throat before dropping again. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the Feywild. I brought him there earlier.” Marc’s a little worried, honestly—Barton’s smart as hell, but also manages to get into a fair amount of trouble on his own. Last thing Marc wants to do is spend the evening trying to pry him from the clutches of other faeries. “I’m here for you now. If you’re coming.”

Barnes looks mildly alarmed. “Honestly, I kinda feel like you’re luring me into a trap.”

“I might be,” Marc says, doing his best to clamp down on the smile threatening to emerge. He’s pretty sure he never smiled this much before this whole thing with Barton started. “But if you _don’t_ come with me, I’ll be insulted.”

“Ma did tell me to never insult the fae,” Barnes says, and Marc’s not entirely sure if he’s joking or not.

He takes a moment to acknowledge how weird it is that he’s bantering with the Winter Soldier, and then offers a hand. “Come on then,” he says. He makes the words a little challenging, adding in some skepticism, like he doesn’t think Barnes’ll do it.

Barnes hesitates for the barest second, and then he puts his hand in Marc’s. Marc closes his eyes, letting the world shift around them, the apartment traded for the familiar scent of the Feywild in the space of a few heartbeats.

Barton’s already there—and naked, Marc notices with some amusement—and he hurls himself into Barnes’ arms without a second thought. “You’re here!”

“I’m here,” Barnes agrees quietly, something softer in his tone. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I wasn’t sure.” Barton kisses him, then eyes Marc. “Were you nice about it?”

Marc thinks about the way he’d greeted Barnes, and does his best to not laugh. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

“Rotten bastard,” Barton says fondly, pulling a smile out of Marc anyway. Then he turns to Barnes, tugging at his clothes. “Get this shit off.”

Barnes lets him, moving with the practiced ease of someone who’s endured this a thousand times. He looks around as Barton pulls the shirt over his head, tossing it to the side. “Faery orgy,” he says quietly to Barton. “Doesn’t look too wild.”

“Just wait, they’re only getting started. You’re still cool with it?” Barton tugs Barnes’ pants down, revealing some impressive musculature, among...other things. Jesus. Marc wants to fuck him, but he wouldn’t mind sitting on _that_ either—

“Fine by me,” Barnes says, and Marc pulls himself back to the moment. _Focus, Spector_.

“You’re the best.” Barton kisses his thigh and stands up. Then he shoves Barnes, making him stumble backwards. “So...get to it.”

Marc only barely catches him, grunting as he does. The guy’s built like a damn tank. “Impatient, aren’t we?” he asks, flashing an amused look over Barnes’ shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days,” Barton says, arousal threading through his voice. His hand slips between his own legs, and he sighs happily. “So, yeah. Get to it.”

Fuck. That’s never _not_ going to be hot, watching Barton just go for it like that. It takes Marc a moment to remember how to form words, and his only saving grace is that Barnes appears to be having the same problem.

_You’re both so gone on him_ , he thinks, and right now, he doesn’t see the problem with that at all.

“He looks good,” he murmurs, tracing a hand over Barnes’ shoulders. “Doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Barnes manages, voice rough. “I—yeah.”

Marc chuckles quietly. Then, on a whim, he slides his hand around Barnes’ throat, tightening just enough to be noticeable. “You liked this, earlier.”

Barnes nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice tight, a little shudder running through him. He’s already getting hard.

“Man of many words,” Marc teases a little, and Barnes flushes red. It’s thrilling, knowing he can pull that kind of reaction out of the Winter Soldier, and the desire curling through him gets to be too much to bear anymore. “It’s alright. I don’t mind.” He tugs Barnes down to the ground, then tips his head back, mouthing along the curve of his jaw. “Anything I should know about?”

“I’ll tell you if something comes up,” Barnes says, already a little breathless, and Marc nods before pulling him into a kiss. The angle is awkward, but neither one of them cares. Barnes kisses desperately, filthily, moaning into it and twisting against him. Marc can feel the magic flowing through him, his normally tight control nearly overridden with the way Barnes is melting under his touch—

“Goddamn,” Barton says, and Marc glances up, eyes immediately noting the way his legs are shaking, and how his fingers are glistening. “You two— _fuck_ , that’s hot.”

“Having fun, I see,” Marc says dryly, trying to pretend that he isn’t about to spontaneously combust at the thought of Barton getting himself off just by watching him and Barnes kiss—

“Told you he’d be into it,” Barton says, grinning. “Just had to get him here.”

“I know. I believed you.”

“You getting undressed at all?”

Marc looks down, realizes he’s still in his Moon Knight gear. “No,” he decides, and shoves Barnes forward, sending him to his hands and knees.

“That is also hot,” Barton says, and kneels by Barnes’ head. “Come kiss me.”

Marc watches for a moment, distracted by the picture they make. Then he shakes himself back into action and slips a finger into Barnes, easing the path with magic. Barnes shouts into Barton’s mouth, and Barton grins, then murmurs something to him that Marc doesn’t quite catch.

He fucks Barnes for a few minutes, watching with fascinated eyes as the other man pushes back onto his hand, silently begging for more. He opens easily enough, and Marc figures he’s probably okay to go, but there’s just something so incredible about the arch of Barnes’ spine, the low, filthy moans being pulled out of him—

“Fuck him,” Barton finally says. “He’s ready.”

Marc is about to double check with Barnes, but then there’s a quiet “ _Nngh_ ,” and he laughs.

“Sounds like it,” he agrees, trusting they’ll tell him if something comes up. He pulls his fingers out, lines up his cock, and then he’s slowly pushing in, closing his eyes as tight warmth surrounds his dick. He bites off a string of expletives, tries not to melt into a puddle as Barnes moans underneath him.

“Clint,” Barnes says, voice shaking. “Clint, I—”

“I know,” Barton murmurs. He’s holding onto Barnes, but his eyes are fixed on Marc, intense and warm and excited. “Jesus, Buck, I wish you could see fucking this—”

“I can _feel_ it,” Barnes says, sounding strained. He pushes back against Marc, taking him the rest of the way, and Marc just about dies right then and there. He has to take a few deep breaths to get himself under control, trying his best not to ruin the party before things really get started.

“I bet you fucking can,” Barton says, laughing. “He just about killed me the other night.”

“You liked it,” Marc says, his voice low, and he leans forward to wrap a hand around Barnes’ cock. Barnes drops his head to look, then immediately snaps it back up, chest heaving. Marc feels slightly better at that, that he’s not the only one hanging on by a thread here.

“I loved it,” Barton says, and Marc tries to remember what they were talking about. “Bet he screams louder than I did.”

_That’s_ a hell of a thought. “Yeah?” He pulls out a little, snaps his hips forward, and grins as Barnes’ immediate response is a long, loud moan. “Mm. You’re right.” It’s unreasonably hot, too—Marc’s always liked vocal partners, and he somehow struck gold with the two of them—

Marc starts fucking him in earnest, then. He’s not going to last forever, so he tries to make it as good as he can, the magic prickling along his skin making him ten times as aware of every sensation.

Barnes is swearing quietly at the ground, head tucked down between his arms. Barton winds a hand into his hair, murmuring quiet instructions to him. A moment later, Barnes is licking between his legs, fingers slipping into him with an obscene sound. Marc makes a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat, and he has to look away for a moment before he can get a grip.

He manages it after a second, wrestling himself back from the edge. He wants Barnes to come first, wants to make sure he’s having a good time, make sure he wants to come back for more—

Barton moans loudly and shudders, going limp against the grass before reaching down to knock Barnes’ hand away with a weak flop of his own. “Fucking—“

“Yeah?” Barnes asks, and there’s a smugness to his tone that Marc finds insanely appealing. Confidence and competence have always turned him on, and both men here have that in spades.

“Don’t get cocky,” Barton says, and Marc can tell he’s trying to be bossy about it, but there’s a waver in both his voice and his hands.

“Not,” Barnes argues.

Marc snickers. “Sounds like it,” he says, just to be an asshole. He leans forward, grinds his hips in a slow motion that draws a delicious whimper out of Barnes.

“He is,” Barton agrees. “Fuck it out of him, would you?”

Marc laughs again. Confidence and competence, accompanied with a cocky smile and a disregard for the rules? Yeah, no fucking wonder he likes this guy so much.“You asking me for a favor, Barton?”

“Not a favor if you were gonna do it anyway,” Barton says, smug as anything, and, well—he’s got a point. Marc makes a noise of breathless agreement and starts fucking Barnes a little harder, curling his fingers into his hips hard enough to leave bruises. He’s so close, already, so fucking close, all he needs is a few more—

“Fucking hell,” Barnes mutters, fingers spasming in the grass every time Marc hits his prostate. “I’m— _shit_ —I’m gonna—”

“Oh, you can last a little longer,” Barton says, and he’s saying the words into Bucky’s ear, but his eyes are fixed on Marc. There’s a challenge in his gaze, a dare in the arch of his eyebrow. “Make him work for it, or he’s gonna get full of himself.”

“I can _hear_ you,” Marc grunts, and Barton snickers knowingly, dragging his tongue up the shell of Barnes’ ear.

“I know you can,” he says. “But that’s half the fun.” He lowers his mouth, murmurs something into Barnes’ ear that gets a long, low moan in answer. Barton’s eyes light up, his fingers rubbing over the back of Barnes’ neck in encouragement.

“I need—” Barnes starts, and hearing him _beg_ is just about the hottest damn thing—

“I know,” Barton says soothingly. “I know. Just a little more.” He’s still watching Marc, eyes shifting between his face and Barnes’ ass, and there’s a knowing little smile on his face.

Marc is about ready to start begging himself, sheer willpower being the only thing holding back his own orgasm. But then Barton says, “Now,” and Barnes gasps sharply, arms collapsing forward as he comes. The shift in angle is enough to set Marc off too, and then he’s swearing quietly, pulling out and coming on Barnes’ back, watching the shifting muscles with fascination.

_Fucking glitter glue_ , he thinks as he catches his breath, and nearly bursts out laughing. _Goddamn you, Barton._

He tunes back in in time to see Barnes tip to the side, sprawling on the grass with a loose, sated laugh. He looks much more relaxed now, happy and at ease, and Marc likes it so much more than he should.

“Did you break him?” Barton asks, grinning down at Barnes, one hand gently petting through his hair.

“You two seem to put a lot of faith in my abilities,” Marc says, tucking himself back into his pants. “I’m good, but I don’t think I’m _that_ good.”

“You’re great,” Barnes assures him, half-slurring. He blinks up at Barton, a tender expression on his face, and Marc is suddenly hit with a flash of _want_ hard enough to take his breath away.

“You’re great,” Barton agrees, and Marc blinks, forcing himself back into the moment. “So who’s gonna fuck me now, huh? Had to sit there and watch that little display, I’m kinda feeling left out.”

Barnes laughs weakly. “Left out? Just about made you yell my damn name to the whole Feywild. You weren’t left out, what kinda bullshit is that?”

Barton laughs. “Alright, fine. Question still stands.”

“I need a minute,” Barnes says, and tilts his head back to look at Marc. His gaze is open and inviting, and Marc realizes after a moment that he’s offering his permission. Which Marc already has, in a roundabout way, but it’s nice to see it in person. Makes him feel accepted.

“I also need a minute,” he says, because as much as he wants to, he does need _some_ recovery time. Unfortunately. “I’m not a machine, you know. I’m just a regular fae.”

“Uh-huh,” Barton says, sarcasm written all over him. “ _So_ regular.” He flops back on the grass, dramatic as ever. “Do I need to wander elsewhere to satisfy my urges?”

“Go for it,” Barnes says, sounding a little more with it than he was a moment ago.

Barton looks slightly surprised. “Yeah? You mean that?”

“Course I do,” Barnes says, a slight smile in his voice. “I got what I wanted.”

“Oh, I see how it is. You got yours, so now I’m left to wander the Feywild in search of company? That the case?”

Marc can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, even as he hides a smile. “He whine this much to you?”

“Always. He thinks it’s charming, but it’s not.”

“It’s so charming,” Barton says, flashing a grin.

“It’s not,” Marc says. “I promise.” It is, actually, but he’ll never admit that.

Barton flips them both off, and Barnes laughs. “I don’t care,” he says. “If that’s what you want, go for it. I’ll watch. Maybe join in later.”

That’s a nice mental picture. He knew Barton was interested, based on last time, but he never would’ve pegged Barnes for being into this kind of thing.

“You’re the best,” Barton says, kissing him and rolling up to his feet. “Specs, anything I should know about?”

Marc winces, his entire soul shriveling a little bit at the nickname. “Don’t call me _Specs_ ,” he says, and knows even as the words leave his mouth that it’s useless to protest. “And no. Don’t be stupid. Don’t tell ‘em your name. Don’t eat anything. You know the rules.”

Barton nods. He blows a kiss at Barnes, then turns and makes his way to the fae at the other end of the glade. Marc studies them, recognizing a few. Barton’s smart, but they’re savvy as hell, and good at messing with humans. He’s going to have to—

“We’re gonna have to rescue him,” Barnes says, sitting up. Marc’s never seen him look anything other than tense or angry, and it’s nice to see the languid way he’s sitting. It’s a strange new world, Marc knows, but he hopes Barnes can relax here. The guy deserves it. Him and Barton both.

“We’ll give it a few minutes,” he says. “Let him get it out of his system. Then go get him and see if he’s up for another round. Sound like a plan?”

“It’s a deal,” Barnes agrees.

Marc smiles faintly. “Shouldn’t make deals with the fae,” he says. “Ma didn’t tell you that one?”

Barnes offers his own smile. It smooths out his lines, takes years off his face, and Marc suddenly wants to kiss him. Wants to kiss him like how he wanted to kiss Barton, and the strength of it surprises him.

“Yeah,” he says, turning to look at Barton, a slow warmth curling through him, a thousand possibilities suddenly at his fingertips. “I think you’ll be just fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you sharkinterviewee for the glitter jizz line, 11/10 appreciate you.
> 
> And greyishbobbi for the sensitivity read and the “could be a mouthful”. 11/10 appreciate you also.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


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